


Dirty Work

by sundrinker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Play, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundrinker/pseuds/sundrinker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock drops by the clinic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Work

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Vulgar Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/715516) by [la_novatrice (fleurs_du_mol)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurs_du_mol/pseuds/la_novatrice). 



> thanks to [breathedout](http://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout/pseuds/breathedout) for a thorough and thoroughly helpful beta. All remaining infelicities are my own.

They’ve had a few cancellations at the clinic, and John has actually made a dent in the endless backlog of NHS reports, when he hears Sarah speaking to someone, just on the other side of his office door.

“…this for a case?” The tones of her voice graduate into words as the door opens and she steps halfway in, the other figure still indistinct behind her.

“No, no,” comes Sherlock’s voice, plummy with assumed warmth and reassurance. “Just a small matter I need to discuss with him for a few minutes. You can have him back afterward.”

John can hear the false smile, even if he can’t see it yet, and he grits his teeth. They’re up to a couple of dates a week, now, he and Sarah; and she’s been surprisingly gracious about putting on a good face when John cancels because of a case with “the mad flatmate,” which is the only thing Sarah ever calls him since the circus incident. She would be far less gracious if she knew that he and The Mad Flatmate were having it off over every available surface in Baker Street on the off nights. And Sherlock keeps doing this, dropping hints that are not quite hints, like he’s hoping she’ll put together what he isn’t exactly telling her. John’s jaw clenches with frustration as he turns to face Sherlock, who is closing the examination room door behind him and stuffing his scarf into his coat pocket. This was not their arrangement.

“Sherlock.” John rises to his feet, hands braced on the desk in front of him. “What are you doing here.”

“Ah. Well.” Sherlock clasps his hands theatrically and dips his head. “I do have a minor medical concern I’d like to talk to you about.”

Damn it. The play of light on the dramatic planes of his face, the spark of mischief in his eye, the fluid grace of every movement as he strolls over to the flat-backed examination chair… Sherlock’s whole presence strikes John bodily, as it always does, and he hums like a tuning fork in response. He’s still annoyed, but he knows by now that there’s nothing he can do to quell the lust that wells up from a dim, deep place. He takes a few slow breaths to calm himself down. He’ll go home after his shift, and Sherlock will be there, no doubt lounging about or setting things on fire. Or maybe both. And after John gives Sherlock a bit of hell for coming into the office and messing him about, he can bend Sherlock – no. He crushes that thought before it, too, gets out of hand. 

He sets his jaw and marches up to Sherlock, fixing him with what John hopes is a cold stare. “A medical matter,” he repeats, because he knows that will irritate Sherlock. “And it couldn’t wait. All right then, let’s have it.” Sherlock tips up his chin in victory, but John continues, pointing at him, index finger inches from his chest. “But then we’re done here, all right? I’ve still got another four hours.”

Sherlock smiles. “Yes, all right,” he says, deep and intimate, and Christ, John isn’t sure how he’s going to make it through this… whatever it is Sherlock needs from him without shoving him up against a wall and ravaging him. 

Then Sherlock’s hands drop to the flies of his slim grey trousers, and John swings away bodily. 

“Christ, Sherlock,” he says, bending forward slightly. Three seconds, and he’s gone from the low thrum of arousal he always feels when Sherlock’s around to being so hard it hurts. “Christ,” he says again, barely able to summon breath. “What— what are you….”

Behind John (who can’t see him, isn’t looking, but every other sense is keyed into him), Sherlock has slid his own trousers down to his ankles and perched himself on the edge of the chair. “I seem to have some sort of foreign object lodged inside of me.” John sneaks a glance back at Sherlock and sees him easing a butt plug out of his arse. Sherlock’s voice drops even deeper. “I was hoping you could help take care of it for me…. _Doctor._ ”

John can’t help it, he starts laughing, high and a little hysterical. Sherlock had been so excited to buy the thing a few weeks earlier – much to John’s mystification – and they hadn’t used it since. Is this what he had been thinking, all along? “Sherlock,” John finally manages, turning around, still shaking with mirth, “you’ve been watching internet porn again, haven’t you?”

“Possibly,” snaps Sherlock, expression gone sour in the face of John’s amusement.

‘Because this –” John spreads his hands to take in not only his half-naked flatmate and the butt plug beside him in its small puddle of lube, but the whole office “— is a bit tired, you know what I mean?”

Sherlock’s mouth twists with spite. His hand shoots forward, grabbing the belt loops of John’s jeans, and he yanks John forward. John is instantly aware of how close their hips are, of the heat radiating from Sherlock’s groin. “Tired, is it?” Sherlock says viciously, as he grabs John’s erection through his jeans. John cannot help but gasp, and struggles to keep his breath steady as Sherlock gropes him through the stiff fabric, with the fingers of his other hand still hooked through John’s belt loops. “Because you seem to be on fairly _high alert_.”

John feels his irritation flare again. He hates it, hates it, when Sherlock manipulates him. Sex is different, sex is a game with its own rules, but now Sherlock has brought it across the line, into John’s life outside. John will be properly angry about it later, he knows; but right now Sherlock’s voice, his hands, his smell, are overwhelming him, driving everything else out. 

He pushes Sherlock’s hand away, and sees surprise register on his face the next second at the sight of John undoing his own flies. “But we’re… still doing this,” Sherlock says uncertainly. 

“Yep.” John smiles, pleasant and deadly, as he shoves his jeans and pants down to his thighs. His cock springs free, and he gestures toward it where it stands out stiff and dark with blood. “Unless you can think of some other medical application for _this_ ,” he says, eyebrows raised. And then he shoves Sherlock, hard. Sherlock’s back hits the flat back of the chair, tipped nearly horizontal, and John grabs his hips and shoves inside.

It was a good line, John thinks, but then he undercuts it with a long, disjointed groan as he slides inside Sherlock’s body. He no longer cares, he no longer cares about anything other than the exquisite feeling of being buried inside Sherlock, the damp heated press of his own forehead to Sherlock’s bare throat and shoulder as he thrusts into him, wrenching harsh gasps from each of them. 

Some other worry pinches at the edge of John’s mind, loses its hold, vanishes. He doesn’t care what it is, he can’t. He pushes Sherlock shoulders back until the chair is flat beneath him, climbs up over him with knees on either side of his hips and drives into him, again and again. He is brimful with bright white pleasure, utterly adrift in sensation; there is no room to remember why anything other than this might be important, ever. 

Sherlock angles his hips up so that John can get even deeper, then wraps his hands round John’s arse, his fingertips pressing painfully into flesh as he pulls John’s next thrust even farther inside of him. Sherlock lets out a low moan, and what little control John has left slips away. Grabbing Sherlock by the waist, he pushes in still harder, and sinks his teeth into the sweaty flesh just above Sherlock’s collarbone to keep from yelling.

Sherlock’s cock is now pressed between them; John can feel it hot against his lower stomach, leaving smears of pre-come on his skin and shirt-tails. “Looking forward to coming all over my work clothes, are you?” he pants out. Sherlock’s eyes are closed now, but he nods, slight but still perceptible amid the jerking of his body as John moves in him. “Thought I might,” he gets out. 

“Rather you didn’t,” John manages on a huff of air. Sherlock only laughs, but his breath hitches, and John can tell he’s close. Letting go of Sherlock’s waist, he takes hold of his cock, right at the base, and squeezes. 

Sherlock’s eyes fly open, and he lets out a choking gasp. Sherlock’s right hand flies up, but John catches him at the wrist and holds it down against the chair, replacing left hand with right in its tight ring around Sherlock’s cock. “Not this time, you prick,” he grits out. “Unless you want me to stop.” Sherlock’s eyes fall shut in helpless assent, his free hand tugging John in even harder.

One of Sherlock’s favorite parts of sex – or at least, sex between the two of them – has always been wrapping his huge hands around John’s arse, pulling him deep, holding him there tightly as John’s release throbs inside of him. John has always known this, almost since the beginning, but it’s never mattered, never meant anything beyond their own mutual pleasure. But now John finally has the upper hand, and the thought sends an extra jolt through him, a fiery snap along the already too-bright edge of pleasure building inside him. He releases Sherlock’s hand and plants his palm on Sherlock’s chest, thrusting once, twice, and then a third time as his orgasm overtakes him and he comes, hard, deep in Sherlock’s body, groaning as he pulses into him over and over.

John collapses over Sherlock, the last few waves of his orgasm still breaking. A few seconds later Sherlock shifts impatiently beneath him, his cock rubbing against John’s stomach. John wants to stay there forever, draped over Sherlock, but it dawns on him that his plan to keep his clothes clean is about to backfire. Planting his hands on the edges of the chair next to Sherlock’s elbows, he pushes himself upright, then tugs a wide-eyed Sherlock up to sitting, to the very edge, as he eases himself off of the chair and onto his knees. The bare floor is hard, but he shifts his jeans down to make a sort of cushion. Besides, this won’t take long.

Sherlock moans, again, as John takes the head of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. They haven’t done this much: sometimes there are hand jobs up against the wall, but usually it’s John inside of Sherlock, or naked frottage when they can’t hold out that long. But he’s been on the other end of this loads of times, enough to know what feels good. He wraps one hand around the shaft of Sherlock’s cock and pulls off to lick the length of it slowly. “Oh, God, John,” Sherlock chokes out above him, so John does it again. Sherlock moans deep in his throat, and raises his arm to bite down on the sleeve of his coat. John feels the skin on Sherlock’s cock shift as his balls tighten, and takes the head back into in his mouth. Sealing his lips firmly around the shaft, John runs his tongue lightly along Sherlock’s frenulum, and then Sherlock is coming, warm and bitter on his tongue. He still isn’t keen on the stuff, but he sucks Sherlock all the way through it, tonguing the underside gently until Sherlock’s breathing has slowed. He sinks his teeth lightly into the head as he pulls off, and Sherlock gives a high, surprised yelp. It is, by far, the loudest sound either of them has made since Sherlock pulled the door closed fifteen minutes ago.

“All right, then.” John says, climbing to his feet, in what somehow manages to be a normal voice. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and then makes a face at the damp smear, even though it’s probably just his own saliva. Meanwhile, Sherlock is tucking himself back in and zipping up. The flush on his face is fading; another minute or so, and somebody who knew him less well than John probably wouldn’t even notice. Certainly not Sarah, who’s barely looked him in the eye for a month or more. If she figures it out, it won’t be today.

“Feeling better?” he quips, as he does up his own jeans while Sherlock watches with evident pleasure.

“Much,” Sherlock replies, and darts a small, smug smile John’s way. John, feeling contentment settle into him as he does up his jeans, can’t help smiling back. He walks up to Sherlock and slides a hand along his neck, rubbing his thumb along the bite mark he had put there. “Best put your scarf back on before you go.”

Sherlock hums assent and pulls his scarf out of his pocket. John should step away, let him wind it on, but they stand there, unmoving, until Sherlock dips to give John a quick kiss. John slides his hand up to Sherlock’s hair to hold him there, stretch it out a bit longer, then lets him go with a brief pat to the chest.

“See you at home, then?” he says, as Sherlock loops his scarf on. 

“Of course.” Sherlock inclines his head, cool formality, even toward John, the outermost layer of his public costume. 

“Well, don’t forget this.” He picks up the butt plug, still sticky with lube, and drops it into the pocket of his coat. Sherlock winces slightly, and John can’t help grinning. Surely the dry cleaners can take care of it. They’re probably even posh enough not to say anything. 

Sherlock moves wordlessly to the door, and opens it to admit the bright, cluttered hum of the waiting room, the receptionist on the phone, Sarah chatting with a departing patient. After the past few minutes, John is almost surprised that it’s still there. John hears Sherlock thanking Sarah profusely for John’s time. He smoothes down his cardigan and takes a seat as his desk. A moment later, Sarah appears in the doorway, as he knew she would, and he hopes he looks calm and presentable.

“Was it a case, then?” The interest in her voice, he knows, is unfeigned; she does like hearing about them, even if she doesn’t relish the thought of getting in the middle again herself.

“What? No,” John replies. “It was, um.” He’s always been shit at coming up with excuses on the spot. Perhaps he’ll need to start a list. “Nothing very interesting.”


End file.
